


Brumous

by Petyrs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ancient Greece AU, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Water Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:10:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1727270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petyrs/pseuds/Petyrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost in one of Athens' labyrinthine bath houses, Sansa Stark finds herself subject to the helpful attentions of Petyr Baelish, all too eager to introduce her to the city's ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brumous

“Come along, Sansa, mother said we were to stay together!” A difficult task, as the Lannister matriarch carved her way through the midday crowds towards the baths with nary a look over her shoulder to check on the pair of girls in tow. Myrcella’s voice, then, must serve as assurance enough that her pace was matched. Storms had delayed her journey, yet still the girl had been settled in the great city for nearly a fortnight without venturing more than a few narrow streets away from her hosts’ home. Cersei, however, whether driven by the goodness of her heart or, more likely, the unrelenting pleas of her daughter, promised to take the two girls when next she paid a visit to Athens’ most spacious bath house. “You both _are_ young women now,” she had surmised, “and it would do our Sansa a great deal of good to see firsthand the differences between a _farm_ and city proper.”

Despite the tone of disdain, the auburn-haired beauty did not spend a childhood toiling beneath summer skies for paltry harvests of olives or wheat. Her father oversaw a large swath of lands many leagues north of the city-state: wealthy, landed, possessed of a bloodline well-storied. The eldest daughter, then, stood most appealing to those within and without Greece’s populous centers, though it was a boyhood friendship that promised her to the golden-haired first born of a family rumored to control much of Athenian politics. “Sansa!” Myrcella whirled back and grabbed the wrist of her future sister, pulling a wide-eyed and agog Sansa deeper into the throngs, into the shadow of a building from which steam and people both continuously trickled.

Leather sandals, previously scraping along the dried alluvium dusting the streets, fell with echoing slaps on damp marble. It was unlike anything the girl had seen before, white columns, turquoise waters, billowing clouds of opaque vapors heavy with scented oils. And all about her, flesh of ivory, flesh of copper, flesh of ebony: men and women alike milled about or lounged, disrobed, unabashed, at ease. It required every ounce of restraint Sansa could muster not to stare at the confluence of human forms about her; the girl pulling her along, by contrast, paid them as much attention as she had the peddlers on the street, breezing through the scattered groups after a rapidly disappearing crown of gold. “There she is Sansa, keep up!” Then Myrcella, too, pulled away into the crush of bodies, fingers slipping free from her wrist in the humid air. It took no more than a handful of steps for the girls to lose one another, the blonde scurrying after her mother, the copper-haired guest panting despondently in a sea of strangers.

Cersei had made no mention of _where_ in the bath house they were to go, its attendants aware of the place’s workings yet not of expected comings and goings. One man, when asked, gestured vaguely down the passageway in which she stood as to where the woman often spent her time; such a direction only served to isolate her further, each glance past open thresholds revealing another grouping of strangers. A fully-clad girl, wide-eyed and increasingly harried, failed to draw any attention until Sansa stumbled, nearly headfirst, into a small room from which a constant stream of giggling and squeals was emanating.

Unlike the others she had espied, this chamber contained a dozen or more small pools, rather than one or two communal baths. Each housed only a handful of bathers, often just a lone man and woman, though some hosted trios or quartets. Where in all the others glimpsed through billowing steam, occupants might sit near one another without becoming entwined, here women perched on laps or men stood between their partner’s legs; all positions of intimacy, which immediately set her stomach to tumbling, cobalt eyes falling to a more discrete patch of tiling near sandaled feet. Behind Sansa, a chuckle rumbled out. “Not the sort we’re used to here. Lost are you, my dear?”

Celadon greeted the girl as she turned, glinting silver through the steam of the room. Rather unlike her, still swathed in violet chiton, the man who addressed Sansa stood with arms crossed over a torso as bare as the remainder of his body. She caught only a glimpse of chestnut hair between his legs before forcing her stare upwards, past flat stomach, along a similar thatch upon his chest, skirting over bemused smile to at last meet his eyes again. “ – I – I’m looking for someone,” she admitted. “But I don’t see her here…” At that the man let out a barking laugh. “No, I don’t imagine you would. Tell me, who is this mysterious companion you seek?” One brow arched up, even as Sansa made to back away. “The woman keeping me, and her daughter. Cersei,” she ventured, “Cersei -- ”

“Lannister?” the stranger finished. Her nod infused a tone of contemplation to an otherwise avaricious look. “So _this_ is the bride Joffrey has managed to ensnare. _Lucky boy_.” Sansa misliked the look trailing along her body, as though draped linen did nothing to conceal the budding curves beneath. “At times I prove most useful to his father,” he declared, having arrived at some unspoken conclusion. “Petyr Baelish, at my lady’s service.” For all the formality inherent to an introduction proper, offered between them now, a measure of chivalry was lost to the knowledge of his manhood resting plainly in sight. “Sansa.” Offered shortly, with no family name to follow when Baelish seemed unsurprised by the information; for if he knew of the son’s betrothal, surely he knew the girl’s name as well. “I will give his father your good wishes,” she promised, certain no mention at all would be made of the room once she took her leave, “but now I must find my hostess.”

A bob of copper-topped head meant to excuse her went ignored; instead he approached her with two quick strides, hand cupping one elbow to see the girl back towards the room’s interior. “I daresay she is already well ensconced in one corner or another. Please, _stay_. The baths here are far less crowded, an ideal place to become acquainted with one of Athens’ finest pleasures.” A jerk of his chin and at once a handmaiden, equally bare, appeared at Sansa’s side. Nimble fingers began working in the clasps and folds of her clothing, the dress tumbling down over one shoulder when the girl made to pull away with stormy eyes. “It shall not be sullied, I assure you.” Then his hand rose as well, freeing the broach still fastened until silk and linen fell to her breasts, her hips, her thighs, where solicitous hands caught the fabric and held it until Sansa could step free.

Hands fisted at her sides, the only restraint against covering her chest and auburn curls. Nudity did not inherently cause the girl discomfort: many years had been spent bathing or swimming in the company of other children. Even as a young woman, when boys and girls were quietly separated for such activities, Sansa knew well the appearance of the human form, its workings, its _normality_. But never had she visited so crowded a place, nor stood disrobed in a room, large or small, filled with the furtive sounds currently drifting from the small pools. “Come,” Baelish invited, “those further removed from the entrance are, naturally, more private.” With an abbreviated smile and outstretched fingers curving about her fist, the man led her deeper into steaming clouds.

They stopped before a bath pressed against the far wall, tiled in shades of aquamarine and aubergine and emerald, mother-of-pearl glinting at its floor. Water of clearest blue moved in faint ripples, cast by the motion in adjoining spaces; fog hovered at its surface, tendrils creeping out to lick at slim ankles. In the short journey shoulders had drooped, hands unwound, Sansa’s posture entire wilting to a display of comfort in the inescapable humidity. Her escort’s fingers slid to rest under one palm, both encouragement and chivalric guide to ease one foot and then the other onto an enameled bench some distance beneath the water. “Never mind your hair,” he advised when she made to pile it sloppily at her crown. “It will dry quickly in the summer heat.” Auburn tumbling free, Sansa at last released a pleased groan at the warmth permeating muscles tensed by worry and discomfort.

Petyr disturbed the pool not at all as he crouched and slid into its waters with a practiced slide, grinning at the girl’s indulgent slump. Blue drifted closed, head tilting to rest against the edge of tiled basin. Sitting at a right angle to her, the man raised one hand from the water and, with a damp snap, summoned yet another attendant. This one bore a tray of hammered metal, on which a confluence of glass vials were balanced; requiring no instruction, the first was lifted and tipped over the water between them. At once the cloying smell of flowers blossomed from its surface, slitting her gaze again. “Rose oil,” he murmured. “For the skin.” That container emptied, another was selected and dumped; the sharp twang of mint prickled her throat, teased her nostrils. “Spearmint.” Baelish leaned forward, a lone finger tracing along her brow to curl at sweat-beaded temple. “For the mind.” His touch wandered, fingertip catching in a lock of hair, tracing it downwards until knuckles brushed oil-slicked water. “A rare shade, in the city _or_ the countryside.”

Sansa thought perhaps it was meant as a compliment, yet no words of thanks came to her. For several long moments they sat together, she studying the man through slitted eyes, he studying auburn strands, when Baelish’s touch continued its journey to clasp her arm for a third time beneath the bath’s surface. “Join me, Sansa.” A gentle tug urged her to stand, to drift across the distance between them and, with his other hand cupping her hip, to sit astride him as she had seen some of the other women arranged. Though he made to press her close, Sansa leaned to rest on the most distant portion of his knees, well away from bared chest and groin. “This isn’t proper,” she protested, hands a light push against his collar. “This isn’t -- ” Petyr cut her off. “Do you understand what happens here, my dear? What is happening just over there?” He nodded to a couple seated much as they were, the woman entangled atop the man, chin curved over his shoulder with parted lips. “Or there?” Another nod, this time towards a far more boisterous pool, water set to sloshing by a man thrusting eagerly against a woman braced at the basin’s edge. _They’re fucking_ , she might have answered, though such was language used by her brother and censured by her mother. Looking back to him, the barely-opened mouth, darkening irises, and flushed skin betrayed Sansa’s knowledge without a word being spoken.

“Would you like to know what that feels like, Sansa? _Here_?” The hand upon her hip slid, one arm encircling her waist and pulling the girl flush against him; from her elbow, the other fell to where brown and copper barely tangled, pointer extended to seek out some hidden patch of flesh. Squirming at the unfamiliar pressure, gasping when it began to lazily circle the unexplored nub between her thighs. Sansa’s own arms snaked around his neck, granting leverage and proximity both. “ _Inside you?_ ” he pressed, brow falling to rest heavily on hers. The finger’s motion ceased, instead dipping further, brushing folds untouched to slide within her walls. “Joffrey,” came the girl’s only protest, abbreviated by incoherency of mind rather than a dearth of objections.

“Needn’t enter your thoughts at all.” The digit pumped languidly, his arm encouraging Sansa to move in slight rocking motions atop it, yet when a second made to join it at her center, the girl winced. “Surely I’m not…” Comprehension dawned. “ --- A _maid_ …” She could feel his length, already stiffening against her stomach, twitch. “Come,” he begged, slipping free to clutch at the dip of her waist and lift the girl scant inches above his legs. Baelish’s cock bobbed in waters still warm, falling heavily against her pelvis, her thigh, until his shifting and her manipulation brought it to prod at the entrance just abandoned. Nudging at downturned head, his green sought her blue with unabashed _hunger_. “ _Let me show you._ ”

Above him, Sansa trembled; surrounded by whores, in full view of a dozen or more souls, with a man of whom she still knew nothing, was not at all the imagined first foray into carnal pleasure. Would it matter to her betrothed, who so often looked to his carousing father for insight on how best to conduct oneself? Would she even see this man again, after allowing him such liberties? _A girl of the city would agree_ , she thought. _A **woman** would not hesitate to take her pleasure_. And so her nails dug into the tender flesh of his nape as Sansa began to lower herself onto his lewdly jutting head. Wordless, ever staring, astonished to watch Baelish’s eyes fall half-closed, his own mouth opening with a shuddering moan. Just as his pleas shocked her, he clearly expected no acquiescence on the part of his autumnal waif. Anticipating a rush of worldly power, instead Sansa felt a stinging pain that made her yelp, descent arrested over its clear cause. “Slowly,” he instructed, yet unable to look at her fully, “or all at once. _Purpose_ eases the hurt, not hesitation.” She nodded, short, distracted, and wriggled until he fit once more between her legs. Then it was a sheathing, _slow_ and _purposeful_ , of rigid flesh within her core. Determined to see the folly through, what doubt lingered was released with a juddering groan she moved to muffle in hair flecked with condensation.

Petyr’s hand shot up, lightning quick, to fist at the base of her skull and pull the girl’s head back. “ _No_ ,” he ordered. “I want to hear it. Every noise.” Softer words to follow vehement disagreement, paired with trailing kisses along a throat exposed. She bit her lip, then thought better of the gesture; another incremental descent and her gasp reverberated off the lacquered walls. “ _Yes_.” Though his fingers bruised and his teeth threatened to nip along what flesh they could find, Petyr made no effort to dictate the gradual intrusion of his length. When at last Sansa sat flush against him, edging closer until the press inside her became a discomfort rather than a shooting pain, both hands ran in appreciative caress along her spine.

Preoccupied entirely with the sensations at the apex of her thighs, it was only then that Sansa glanced down, nudging him to look upwards for their mouths to bob near, and far, and near again to catch in hesitant kiss. The tip of wetted tongue betrayed her, daring to prod towards his own in fumbling advance; Petyr wasted not a breath, arms forming a cage about her torso, hips rolling into her even as the girl grimaced against his lips. “ _Move_ ,” he begged between deepening kisses. “It will subside if you _move_.” At first she could only demonstrate her willingness in their embrace, nervously declaring: “ – I…I don’t know _how_.”

Once more, Baelish sought to _educate_. Fingers grazed arched back, cupping her bottom in momentary appreciation before clutching it in possessive squeeze; first pushing forward, then pulling back, guiding the girl to a rocking motion that birthed steady wavelets in their shared pool. “Like…so…” Sansa only frowned, still aching, until the little bud he had found with practiced ease brushed against a jut of bone when the girl tilted forward. Then toes twitched and breath hitched, rhythm stolen from the man and given amateurish pace by the young woman astride his cock. “ _Good girl_ ,” he urged, grip loosening in acknowledgement of control taken, kept, used. “ _Fuck me_.”

Sansa had no mind for tutting at the use of such crass demands, distracted beyond all coherency at how _full_ she felt, the curious transition from a throbbing pain to a building promise of ecstasy where they were joined. The only response he earned was a guttural moan and tightening hold, until her breasts turned pink from the scratching of hair upon his chest, head wedged beside Petyr’s as affection fell away in favor of the _chase_. Though her knees ached from kneeling upon the tile bench and her legs burned from exertions unanticipated, something rapturous was building, centered at her core and sparking outwards quicker and quicker, fingers and toes and lips tingling with the _absurdity_ of it all.

Hips rocked faster, a desperate bid to keep pace with the racing shocks along her limbs, each driving the other to a maddening tempo. “ – _Petyr…!?_ ” His name, at last, came forth in crashing echo. So close to the precipice, wavering at the sight of it, and the girl startled, unsure of what might befall her should she point her toes and _dive_. There was nothing graceful in the jerking motion of Sansa’s pelvis, though her partner would disagree most vehemently; preoccupied with her own climax, the terror of its mindless inception, she gave no thought to the man’s enjoyment. _And it mattered not_. Baelish sat curled tightly about his prize, hips lifted and angled to provide what friction they could in selfish hunt. _He would not be left wanting_ , as the heated pressure in his groin attested.

“ _Yes_ ,” he urged, pleaded, approved. “Yes, _Sansa_. Let go. _Let yourself go for me_.” Restraint vanished, her frantic grinding met with short thrusts of his own as Sansa’s panting breaths raised in pitch and desperation both while the girl twined ever closer. “ _Sansa_.” Gritted out through bared teeth. “ _Let go. You have to let go now._ ” Not understanding how he knew of the coiling about her heart or even how to release it herself, Sansa forced a relaxation through her limbs that burst the spring wound tight between her legs with a heralding cry. Or perhaps it was the primal knowledge of a body matured and stimulated, release spreading from where he lay buried to every fiber of her being. It mattered not what came first or what followed, only that it filled her vision with bursting light and stole away her breath. Far away, so terribly far away, Baelish tensed beneath her and groaned out his lover’s name in deep, rumbling approval as she felt heat begin spread within her.

Oblivious to those about them – and some certainly had moved their heads in craning appraisal of the coupling some baths distant – Sansa worked atop him, hurrying after each residual spark, every twinge felt in calves or chest or fingers as the movement of her hips continue to coax a prodding stimulation from Petyr’s cock. It was he who brought an end to greedy hunt, susurrous whispers and combing fingers along her scalp soothing the girl into stillness. “Like that,” he murmured with fogged gaze. “Like that, Sansa. _Gods_.” Softening gave the man no cause to pull away, littering kisses along the swell of her breasts, the ridge of her clavicle, racing pulse and sweat dappled cheeks. At last he ascended to her lips, covered in gentle press with his own. Seeking a breath restored, Sansa obliged in the soft request for affection, mouth and tongue meeting his between covetous gasps.

Yet even the post-coital haze enveloping them both could not smother resurgent worries over the matter of their _discovery_. With a delicate hiss, Sansa made to pull away and failed, caught up in the cage of his arms. “Oh, we shouldn’t’ve…I can’t believe…Oh, if Cersei ever hears…!” The look she turned upon her hapless lover then was equal measures frightened and pleading, begging him to swear secrecy. Petyr only chuckled, lifting her as to ease himself free; for a moment his amusement faded, mossy irises seemingly transfixed by the pearlescent wisps of their joining curling out from her. “She shan’t,” he promised, gaze flicking to Sansa with a renewed hardness. “Nor will her son. And if they did,” Baelish continued, “many women might take on lovers, should they wish…” His smile rose to no more than a smirk, quashed by her continued fretting. “ _Or a husband not anticipated_.” Sansa froze.

“Worry not.” A finger chuffed in reassurance beneath her chin, followed by a lingering kiss between knitted brows. “I care for what is mine.” Baelish’s thumb joined pointer, capturing Sansa’s chin to force a stare. “ _Mine_ ,” he repeated. Sansa nodded, though what such ownership _meant_ eluded her. As the silence between them lengthened, neither motioning to part, it became all too clear that he spoke not of matters of carnal possession or insatiable _want_. He knew of her, he took of her, while she, knowing nothing, gave all. Such acts spoke to far more than any promise between shadowy figures of authority, pacts forsworn between ambitious fathers. Sansa would trust it, would trust him, the man who ushered innocence away with one brush of dry fingers. _I did not even know the weight until it was shed_.

“Yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompted Ancient Greece AU, requested by yellowbreezes for Petyr x Sansa Week. As always, read, comment, and enjoy!


End file.
